


Blood and Ash

by Veeebles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of the Dargonfire, Arya and Sandor as a BROTP, Arya finding the horse, Arya rescuing Sandor, Eventual Sansan, F/M, Mild descriptions of violence, S08E5, Sandor and Arya returning to Winterfell, Sandor finds his peace, Sandor post Cleganebowl, Sandor remembering his sister, The Queen of Ashes, The fall of Kingslanding, Winterfell is home, mentioned - Freeform, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-05 12:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veeebles/pseuds/Veeebles
Summary: The hooves grow louder and the voice still calls his name. He turns his head, pain flaring across his chest and shoulder and sees a silhouette coming closer. The horse is white. The figure too small. His vision is blurred but he can see the figure kick their legs over the side of the horse and drop to the ground, rushing to his side.A familiar face swims in to view and he feels blood trickle in to his beard when he croaks out a laugh.“Thought you were going to leave me to die, Little Wolf?”His voice is a harsh rasp, catching as he chokes on blood, a cough and a groan sending more trickles out of his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut in pain.“Not today.”





	1. Chapter 1

The dust begins to clear and she forces herself to her feet, entire body groaning in protest. The air is white with ash and powder, she can feel it coat her lungs as she draws in shuddering breaths, the taste of burning heavy on her tongue, joining the tang of copper when she licks her lips and tastes the blood. Her ears are ringing from the explosion. The air feels heavy with heat, the smell of bodies burning, dirt on fire, stone singed and blackened makes bile rise in her throat and she doubles over, dry heaving with one hand braced on a crumbling wall.

She drags her sleeve across her eyes, wiping away tears and sees the fabric stained with blood and ash and dirt. The streets are eerily silent, the far away roar of the dragon, the rumble of buildings falling in to flame echo around her as if in a dream. She can hear the sound of the stones crunching beneath her feet. She can hear the clang of needle against her belt as she staggers onwards. The sky is a brilliant white, blinding her and she hugs the wall, shielding her eyes from the light that bounces off the white walls and floor.

She steps over the bodies of women, soldiers, children, animals, all blackened into horrible shrivelled forms, frozen in time. Fires burn around her in the ruins of buildings that once held voices and laugher, homes that had been passed from generation to generation, brothels and drinking pits and bakeries and black smithies. All reduced to ash.

Once upon a time, she had ran through these streets, dressed in rags, dirt smeared across her cheeks, hands outstretched before her in an attempt to catch the sugar birds that fluttered away from her, always just out of her grasp.

Once upon a time she had prayed for the death of these people. She had prayed for the crumbling of these buildings and the screaming of despair. When she had watched them cheer for her Father’s execution, she had wanted nothing more than to watch them all burn. Over time, she had learned to confront her grief. She had learned that those innocents did not belong on her list. They were merely puppets on strings, not even that. They were the laughing faces that watched the puppets dance, the puppeteers were the ones she should exact her revenge on. They were the ones she should hear cry out. They were the ones that deserved to die.

_The Hound. Meryn Trant. Joffrey. The Red Woman. Thoros. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Polliver. The Mountain. Rorge. Walder Frey. Tywin Lannister. Beric Dondarion._

Her list had changed over the years. Most had been crossed off, their eyes closed forever. Some she now called friend. She ran it over in her head once more.

_Cersei. The Mountain._

They were who deserved to die. Not these innocents. Not like this.

She thought about Sandor. Wondered whether he still drew breath. Some part of her hoped he did, wished it like she wished Nymeria was still running wild and free somewhere. Her father used to tell her; _the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ Her pack had grown. She who was once a lone wolf, running in the wilderness, trying to find her way home. Now, she had a pack. She had her siblings, she had Jon, she had Gendry. She had Sandor.

A loud snort had her turning. She rose to her feet slowly, chest aching as she drew in acrid breath after breath. Through the ash, she could make out a large, white shape. It was a stallion. A War Horse. He reared his head at her, snorting and whinnying as if urging her to come forwards. Its strong legs stomped on the floor, stirring up the dust and dirt. Its pretty coat stained with blood.

She walks forwards slowly, so not to spook him. Brown eyes regarded her warily, velvety nostrils flared as he snorted but he still stood his ground. She maintained eye contact as she neared, reaching out her gloved hand to slowly, slowly touch his neck. His eyes stayed watching her. Eyes that up close appeared greyer than brown and reminded her so much of her father. Her father who had always come to her aid, had always guided her and understood her. Her father who had believed in her when no one else had.

A lump choked her throat and tears stained her cheeks but still she looked.

Her hand caught the bridle and her other brushed through short, coarse hairs. She though of Nymeria’s fur. It had ben so long and impossibly soft. She used to bury her face in her neck at night and fall asleep to the sound of the Wolf’s steady breathing, heavy paws resting atop her arms, a warm nose pressed to her cheek, hairs tickling her mouth.

Her body groaned in protest as she kicked up on the horse’s back, her legs feeling leaden and heavy as she squirmed her way on. She sat low in the saddle, feeling the warm breathing of the animal between her thighs and clutched the reigns in her hand. She looks about her once more, looked at the bodies strewn across the floor, the crumble of the walls and the dancing flames all around.

Her list dances through her head again and she turns, looking back through the smoke and the dust to see the crumbled remains of the Red Keep. She looks back the opposite way to the gaping hole blown wide in the wall. The blue sky far beyond, the promise of home and escape, of life.

_“If you come with me, you die here.”_

She grits her teeth and turns, kicking her heels in to the horse’s sides and spurs him forwards, holding tight to the reigns and towards the smouldering fires of the Keep.

 

V

 

 

The very ground he lies on seems to rumble and quake beneath him.

Blood stains his vision and he blinks against the crust of dust and debris coating his face. There’s a heavy weight upon his body and he coughs, pain flaring across his chest at the movement. He groans and tries to move his arms, feeling the dirt gather beneath his fingernails as he clenches and unclenches his fists. Hands are not broken. No pain. That’s a blessing, at least.

Arms are next. He slowly bends his elbows. One arm complies; his sword bearing arm flexes and bends, moving with only the slight protest of his muscles. The other arm doesn’t move at all. There’s a paint, sharp and nagging at his shoulder and the rest of it feels motionless. He idly wonders of its been severed at the armpit.

He cracks his eyes open, blinking away the white and red, the light blinding, dust falling in to bother and sting but soon the tears wash enough away that he can make out his surroundings. Rocks and parts of stone stairwell lie around him. He looks down and sees his left arm bent at a horrible angle that has his stomach lurching in protest and he turns his head away, willing the bile to return to his stomach. When the worlds had ceased its spinning, he tries to flex his toes. Pain spikes up his right leg and he raises his head enough to peer down his body and sees blood coating it from ankle to knee. He tests another move and his foot gives a pathetic twitch before shooting pain sears through again and he groans loud, gritting his teeth against the pain of his ribs – probably broken, if not just cracked.

He has the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth, grains of sand crunching between his gritted teeth and he licks chapped, blood stained lips.

He looks to his side and sees his brother’s face. His eyes are wide and empty, devoid of life and he sags a little in relief.

He stares for some time, the horrible red of his eyes, the blue tinge of his skin, the unnatural look to him. He’s spent his entire life hating the man. From six years of age he has been his reason for living, his promise that one day he would exact terrible vengeance on him for the gift of his scars.

_“You know killing him won’t change what he did to you. Just like killing Ramsay Joffrey, Littlefinger and the rest won’t change what happened to me.”_

The little bird’s words ring in his head like a bell and he would laugh, if he could, that she should be the one to think about while he lies dying. He closes his eyes and her face swims before him. He thinks of her at the feast. Her soft, warm hand upon his, her soft gaze, her pretty blue eyes that danced across his face but never looked away. Her flaming red hair that shone in the firelight like honeyed wine. He’s glad he could see her one last time, glad he could see the woman she has become. He’s glad her face and her voice and even her touch and smell are so fresh in his mind that he can die with her almost by his side.

He watches her smile, hair tumbling down her shoulders and back, soft skin illuminated by candlelight, eyes sparkling and alive. He watches her reach for him, pretty, pink lips opening and hears her voice call his name.

_“Sandor.”_

He feels her in his veins like the curling heat of wine. Feels her pull him up and away from his body, feels weightless, free.

“Sandor.”

 

 

_“Sandor!”_

 

His eyes jerk open and he’s lying in a pile of ash in a crumbling city.

He groans and blinks a few times, hears the galloping of hooves on a gravel pavement and thinks for a moment it is the Stranger, come to reap his soul like the little bird had warned, like so many had warned of his blasphemous ways.

The hooves grow louder and the voice still calls his name. He turns his head, pain flaring across his chest and shoulder and sees a silhouette coming closer. But the horse is white. The figure too small. His vision is blurred but he can see the figure kick their legs over the side of the horse and drop to the ground, rushing to his side.

A familiar face swims in to view and he feels blood trickle in to his beard when he croaks out a laugh.

“Thought you were going to leave me to die, Little Wolf?”

His voice is a harsh rasp, catching as he chokes on blood, a cough and a groan sending more trickles out of his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut in pain.

“Not today,” she replies, roughly wiping the dust from her eyes with her sleeve and turns to catch the reigns of the horse as it paces back and forth behind her. She tugs on the bridle and the horse complies to her gesture, long legs folding beneath him until he lies beside them.

She turns back to Sandor and he realises her intentions, his eyes dart from the horse and back to her.

“You’re mad, girl,” he barks in that weak rasp, “take the horse and go home, leave me here.”

She frowns and her hands are pushing rocks away from his body, dusting rubble off his clothes, kicks away the helmet his brother wore.

“I’m not leaving you this time.”

Her small but strong hands brush over his arm, dark eyes assessing the damage in his shoulder, the odd angle of his arm, the bruising no doubt blooming across his ribs beneath his ripped shirt. The blood coating his leg. He shakes his head at her and catches her hand in his own.

“This world is done with me, leave me to die.”

She just shakes her head, peels off her leather gloves and stuffs them both into his mouth, “I’m not done with you yet, now hold still – this is going to hurt like all the seven hells.”

She takes his arm and rises it above him, turning him this way and that before meeting his eye. He should be surprised she knows what to do, but its been a while since anything she has done surprised him. He just nods to her and grits the leather between his teeth. She gives a sharp tug and the sickening sound of his bone popping back in to its socket fills the air and pain flares like fire across his chest. He shouts out, ignoring the pain in his ribs and surges forwards, spitting out the gloves when the pain subsides as suddenly as it came. He rolls his shoulder experimentally, testing the joint and feels it working fine, if a bit sore and tender.

Arya tugs off her belt and loops it around his chest, strapping his arm over his heart.

“Try not to move it. ”

She tuns to his leg and gently peels back the torn fabric of his breeches.

“You’ve got a nasty cut, nothing too bad, nothing broken at least, but you’ll need stitching.”

She tugs open her jacket and tears a strip off the front of her shirt, leaning over to wrap it around his leg He grumbles and grouches in pain but the spike of it has his vision clearing and his mind coming back to his senses. She wraps it tight around the cut, Sandor gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain. When she’s done, she sits back on her haunches and meets his gaze.

“You’re wasting your time on me, girl. You’ll be faster on your own.”

She rolls her eyes and stands, covered from head to toe in dirt and blood and ash and she moves beside him, hooking his good arm over her shoulders and plants her feet on the ground.

“If I come home without you, Sansa will send me right back to get you.”

It’s a joke, he knows, but it spreads a warmth in his chest that has his body moving, bracing his weight on his good leg and lets her haul him to his feet. They shuffle slowly over to the stallion that sits patiently waiting for them and he gingerly climbs on, dirty hands gripping its snow white mane and seating himself on the broad back.

Arya slides in in front of him, taking the reigns in hand and digs her heels in, the horse lurching and surging to his feet.  Sandor grabs on to Arya’s jacket, gripping the leather hard and squeezes his thighs around the beast’s girth to stay balanced.

“If you fall off, I’ll make you get back up on your own.”

He barks a laugh but squeezes his thighs tighter as the horse starts up a trot, taking them out of the crumbling walls and towards the far away skies of the North.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her face is familiar, emblazoned in his mind. Her dark hair curled and handing around her shoulders. Her dark eyes the mirror of his own look up to him full of love and mirth and childish glee. Her small hand is pale and small in his own, despite her being three years his senior, she is frozen as a child of ten in his mind, preserved in his memories.

By horse, the journey from Kingslanding to Winterfell takes one to two weeks.

It takes them three.

They stopped when they were far enough out of the City to properly treat Sandor’s leg, clean and bind it and re-strap his arm. His eyes were bleeding still and it was a blessing he still has his sight. Arya remembered being blind. How terrifying and disorientating it could be. She wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy, and Sandor was far from that now.

When they reach the trident, they set up camp early for the night to rest the Horse which Sandor had offhandedly named R’hllor. Arya had heard him mutter it to him as he removed its bridle and bit to allow him to graze and she had snorted in amusement, hardly surprised at his blaspheming. She imagined Beric’s reaction to hearing it, imagined him frowning around his eye patch at the man and it made her smile.

She cleaned herself as best she could in the shallow waters of the trident, watching the grime wash away in the water and allowed Sandor to clean the gashes across her face and neck.  

They ate some fish she had managed to spear with needle, Sandor gutting them when he took his arm out of his sling, his movements slow and she could see the scars of his face twist in pain as he cut methodically through the meat. They roasted it over a small fire she built from dry wood she found near the trees they chosen to shelter under. They ate in silence.

They had passed hoards of people on the Kingsroad, finding no reason to avoid it this time, no one would be looking for them now. People that had managed to flee from outside the gates of Kindslanding, travelling in huge packs with horses and mules and wagons filled with what little belongings they could not be parted with. They were all fleeing the city, terrified of the wrath of the Dragon Queen, travelling blindly in the vain hope of surviving the siege.

Arya’s blood had boiled at the sight of them. The Queen that had promised to be their saviour had been their near demise. Her list played over and over in her mind, a new name added and she often found herself looking back down the road, the urge to scratch the last and only name remaining hard to ignore.

Sandor had tapped his boot against her leg one night while she did it.

Crossing the Trident had been easier than before, paying their way with what little coin they had saved from the journey down to buy passage across in a barge. The men had cast apprehensive glances their way, the noise of the rushing water cutting through the silence. They knew where they had come from, but their sullen silence and battered appearance deterred anyone from coming too close.

When they landed on the other side of the water, the continued on. They spoke idly about dinging another horse to speed the journey up, but Sandor had begun to sway a little in his seat. Arya could feel the heavy sag of his body against her back as they rode on while he slept. His body was burning up slightly, he muttered when he slept, and she worried his wounds had gotten infected like before.

She cleaned his leg any chance she got, so much that he ended up batting her hands away one night, hissing that she was worse than a mother hen and she had stood with her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.

She soon realised it wasn’t a fever that was taking him. His brother’s name was often what he muttered out and another name he never heard, a woman’s. Sansa had once told her that he had a sister, Littlefinger had told her about it. She wondered if it was really his demons coming back to him.

She had always thought that her list would be the key to relieving her of her poison. Once she had killed all those on it she would find some level of peace, some relief to the pain that had been inflicted on her since the moment she watched her father’s execution. Sandor had his own list, she had realised a long time ago, the first time they had travelled together. Now his list was done and she could see it gave him no relief. Killing his brother didn’t undo what he had done to him. His scars still marred his face. He still dreamed of the sister he had took from him.

The sight of Wintertown was more a relief to her now than it had ever been. She could see the walls of Winterfell beyond. Smoke rose from what she knew was the smithy and she thought of Gendry, guilt tightening her insides and she kicked the horse forwards. They entered the gates without issue. The people of Winterfell walked here and there, mindless of the destruction that had taken Kingslanding. Ravens cawed overhead and she knew word must have reached Sansa, someone must have sent a raven to tell of what the Dragon Queen had become.

Men came forwards when they recognised the riders and one took the reigns from her. Hands reached up and helped her from the saddle and her body bowed in exhaustion as the events of the past few weeks took their toll on her. She breathed in the cold, clean air of her home and felt her muscles ache with the strain of travel and the destruction of the city.

Sandor nearly fell to the ground if it weren’t for the men holding him up. Men crowded around her, voices shouting for the Lady Sansa to be fetched from the Godswood. They led him away to be put in a bed, to rest after his travels and Arya watched them go.

Movement in the corner of her eye had her turning her head and she saw Gendry standing there, wrapped in leather and grime, face dirty from the forge. He looked at her with clear, familiar eyes full of concern and relief.

Arya’s resolve broke and she rushed to him. He met her halfway, wrapping her up in strong arms and she buried her face into his chest, breathing in the smell of him; sweat and metal and Gendry.

“Come on,” his voice was the same and she revelled in being surrounded by familiarity, in standing walls and cool air. No dragon fire, no screaming children calling for their mothers in fright. No scrambling bodies calling out to the Gods. No death or destruction. Just home. Just safe.

She tucks herself in to his side and let herself be led after Sandor and knows she will sleep for days.

 

 

V

 

 

_Her face is familiar, emblazoned in his mind. Her dark hair curled and handing around her shoulders. Her dark eyes the mirror of his own look up to him full of love and mirth and childish glee. Her small hand is pale and small in his own, despite her being three years his senior, she is frozen as a child of ten in his mind, preserved in his memories._

_She pulls him along through the grass of their family Keep, her laugh like a bell, sparkling through the air. Her skirts are muddy and dirtied from running around with him through the woods, climbing trees and playing knights and princesses. In this dream – for he knows that is all it ever would be – she is happy._

_There is no Gregor anymore to pull her hair and destroy her toys. No Gregor to torment her and push Sandor to the ground. Here, it is just them, playing and laughing. In his dreams, he is always the same, still the scarred, older man she would never know, but she still looks up at him like he is the boy she used to play with. She sings to him sometimes, sings her songs of princes and knights. He lets her tug him along, hears the hounds his father keeps baying in the far distance. He sits with her as she weaves flowers into a crown and smiles over to him._

The quiet singing is what wakes him from his slumber.

His eyes flicker open and he blinks past his blurred vision, his eyes still sore and tender. His body still aches, his head throbs dully but he is lying in a bed more comfortable than any he has ever known. The room is light by the light of a fire, he can hear it crack and spark in its hearth. He shifts and the singing stops and he mourns the loss of it.

“Are you awake?”

He looks to the sound of the familiar voice and red fills his vision. He blinks again until his gaze clears and finds the Little Bird sitting beside his bed. She has sewing in her lap and it makes him chuckle to see the little girl he used to watch slave over dresses she would wear to court is still in there somewhere.

His fingers twitch and he realises she is holding is hand in his own and it makes his heart throb.

She rises from her chair, leaning over him, long hair brushing his arm as she readjusts his pillows while he sits up in the bed.

“I don’t die so easy, Little Bird.”

She smiles softly and takes her chair again, setting her sewing aside on the foot of the bed. He looks around the room. Its grander than any he’s ever been in. A fire crackling in the hearth and fills the room with a comfortable warmth.

“The Maester gave you some milk of the poppy to help you sleep. You kept tossing and turning, muttering in your dreams. I was half terrified a fever had taken you.”

That explains his grogginess and the dulling of the pain in his bones.

“Just dreams, not much can harm me there.”

She nods and fills a mug with water from a pitcher. She leans forwards, holding the rim to his mouth and cups the back of his head in her hand as she helps him drink. He obliges, drinking deep, feeling the ash of the city that has long since coated his throat wash away. His mind slowly comes back to him and flashes of the ruined city on fire, the roar of a dragon and screaming all around him rush through his mind. He settles back into the pillows and watches her place the cup by the bed on a small table. Her hand slips back in to his and squeezes his fingers gently.

“Why is it every time you leave me, you come back with more scars.”

He ignores the urge to hide, can’t imagine the state of his face.

“My brother has a habit of making me a gift of them.”

She smiles sadly at him, clear blue eyes moving across his face. Its jarring, still, to see her look at him without fear. He had known the little girl from Kingslanding for so long that would stare at the floor before his face. She used to flinch away any time he came too close, walk hunched and afraid before him while he escorted her to and from her chambers. Now, she looks him straight in the eye and he finds himself the one wanting to look away, his chest bubbling and his blood warming at her steady, sure gaze.

“I prayed you would come back.”

He nods. He had woke early in the dawn the morning after the feast. Everyone else was still abed or still drinking, the victory of the battle coupled with the wine that had been spared from its rations had made everyone merry and the feast had gone on long into the night. He had drank too, not enough to wake with a headache and had packed his satchel, readied his horse and made to leave before another face had met his.

She had found him in the yard, his hands poised on the saddle of his horse, ready to leave.

She had appeared as if a vision from his dreams; long hair unbound and swaying in the morning breeze. Her cheeks had been rosy in the cold, lips pink and parted as she stood in the alcove of the kitchens watching him, wrapped in her furs.

He had wanted to leave without saying goodbye, found the words catching and awful in his throat.

She had found him during the feast the night before. It had been the first time since Kingslanding that they had shared the same air and his heart had lept in his chest when he looked up to see the Lady of Winterfell fold herself into the bench opposite him. She had looked straight into his eyes and smiled. She had held his hand and reconciled with him the night he had left her on Blackwater. Her words had sparked fire in his veins, anger that she should allow the effects of Littlefinger, Ramsey, Joffrey and the rest bear the victory for the strong woman she had become. She had smiled sadly at him, squeezed his hand in her own, then rose and left him.

He had found her in the corridor outside her bedchamber, grasped her arm and made her look at him like the million times he had done before in Kingslanding.

_“You do not owe your strength to what those cunts did to you.”_

She had frozen under his grasp, eyes wide and staring at him with such vulnerability. Suddenly it was the little girl he had met looking at him, all those walls the Lady of Ice had built up crumbled to the floor and he saw her clearer than anyone else.

_“You were always this person. You were always strong, always a ruler. I knew that from the first moment I saw you, walking through the yards with your Direworlf by your side.”_

He had been surprised to feel the surge of emotion in him as he spoke. His vision had blurred with tears and he had blinked them away angrily, determined to get the words out he needed her to hear.

_“I’ve been angry ever since I can remember. When my brother gave me my scars I filled my mind with thoughts of killing him. I imagined all the ways I would make him suffer, I wanted him to feel my pain tenfold. But that wont change what he did. I’ll kill him, one day, but I know that won’t make me a different man. Before him I was strong, I was honest and I knew what was right and what was wrong. He didn’t take that from me. No one will.”_

She had trembled, eyes searching his face and he had been able to see the shift in those Tully blues. He knew he was a hypocrite. Even then, he knew he would be leaving in the morn to go kill his brother. He knew he would never find any semblance of rest until his life’s purpose had been fulfilled and he watched the light die in his brother’s eyes. But her, he couldn’t stand to see her become this thing, this cold, heartless thing that let her circumstances get the best of her. He knew she was stronger than this, stronger than she knew, and he knew it, better than he knew his own goddamn name, that those bastards had nothing to do with it.

_“All the things that happened to you are not the reasons you are the way you are now. You were always a wolf, little bird, don’t you dare let them be the reason for your strength.”_

She had looked at him in silence and he had cursed the wine in his belly for loosening his tongue He thought she might strike him. He thought she might rip herself out of his grasp and demand he never speak to her again. What he hadn’t expected was the tears to fall down her cheeks and her arms to wind around his neck.

_“Thank you.”_

He had held her close, breathing in the smell of her hair and let himself have this, this one moment of goodness before he met his death come the morn. He had lived a long life. A long, hard life, full of too much blood and pain. But this, the Little Bird in his arms, holding him like he was the only man in the world, it was close to perfect, and he felt he could die happy so long as he had had this.

He had walked her to her room and she had surprised him once more by pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. What he wouldn’t have given to turn his head and kiss her like he had dreamed of for so long. Instead, he had let her go, watched her disappear behind her door and gone to fill his belly with more wine, the smell of sweet lemons and lavender lingering in the air around him.

The next morning, there she found him, ready to leave without a look behind. He had stilled, hands still poised on the saddle and waited with baited breath. She had come forwards, smiling small and soft, her hair flowing in the breeze and he longed to reach out and touch it, revel in its softness. She had fit herself in the space between his body and the horse. Close, too close, closer than was proper for a lady and a lowly soldier.

She had looked up at him, eyes wandering over his scars and raised a hand to touch his cheek. Her skin had been so soft, her thumb trailing across the seam of his lips.

His heart had been thundering in his chest, he was sure she must be able to hear it.

Then, she had rose, pressing herself against him, cradling his face in her gentle hands and kisses his mouth softly.

His world had ground to a halt, and he had gripped the leather of the saddle in his gloved hands, heart racing, blood rushing and head reeling.

As quickly as it had begun, it had ended. She pulled away but stayed close, lips brushing against his beard as she spoke quietly, just for him.

_“Come back to me, Sandor.”_

Then she was gone, in a flurry of black fur and red hair, she disappeared into the snow, like an apparition or a remnant from his dreams. He had pulled himself on to the horse and rode out the gates with new purpose.

He smiled at the memory and tilted his head against the pillow to look at her better.

“You asked me to come back, I came back. Your Gods have nothing to do with it.”

She chuckles at him and her fingers squeeze his.

“Besides, your sister seemed hell bent on saving me. Said you would send her back to get me if she returned alone.”

That earned him a laugh, ringing through the air like the call of a bird and it warmed his chest better than any Dornish wine.

“She is not wrong.”

His mind feels clearer, the effects of the poppy lessening and he feels better than he had before.

“How long have I been resting?”

“Two days. Arya sat with you most of yesterday but I sent her away to rest too. She looks almost as bad as you do.”

He smiles and sits up further in the bed. Its strange being back here. He had lived his whole life without feeling truly at home. Clegane Keep had been tainted by his brother and the memory of his sister. Kingslanding had been a pit of snakes that he never felt he could rest in. Here, Winterfell, it felt like a place he could call home. He likes these Northerners, likes their honesty and loyalty.

As if she can read his mind, Sansa squeezes his fingers again and sits closer, her hair brushing his skin again, her skin cast soft from the fire.

“Will you stay this time, Sandor? Will you finally rest?”

He looks at her. This slip of a girl who has become a Lady. A little girl who has become a woman stronger and kinder and better than any he has ever known. He doesn’t believe in oaths, doesn’t believe in any cause. Sees corruption wherever he goes. But her, the Little Bird. He could swear his sword to her. His fighting days are behind him. He’s too worn and too scarred to keep going. Mayhaps he can find the peace he has been looking for here. He finds that he wants that.

“If you will have me here, I’ll stay.”

He might has well have gave her all the gold in the seven kingdom with how brightly she smiles. She sits on the edge of the bed and rests his hand in her lap, leans close, close enough that he can smell her sweet lemon and lavender.

“I’ll would have you nowhere else, Sandor.”

She presses her lips against his mouth and he feels the ropes of his past slowly untie and coil away. He feels lighter than he ever has when he tastes her mouth and hears the call of a bird outside the window and the far away howl of a Hound and feels at peace.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sansa and Sandor scene after the feast in this fic is an excerpt from a previous fic i wrote called When The Walls Come Down - just in case anyone was wondering and would like to check it out! https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749536
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone showing such wonderful support for this story and leaving all the lovely comments, each and everyone has made me smile so much!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”
> 
> When she closes her eyes, she can still see the crumbing city around her. She can still hear the awful screech of the Dragon, can still hear the screams of the men, women and children running from the Dragon Queen’s wrath. She wonders if the Dragon Queen could hear the screams of her victims from her perch high above them. She wonders if she bears the weight of her actions. She wonders if she mourns the loss of the people she had sworn to free.
> 
> The Dragon Queen had carried out the execution of the innocents in Kingslanding. Did she bear the burden for those deaths? Had it fuelled the fire burning in her? Would she burn them all until she truly was the Queen of Ashes?

_The Hound. Meryn Trant. Joffrey. The Red Woman. Thoros. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Polliver. The Mountain. Rorge. Walder Frey. Tywin Lannister. Beric Dondarion._

The scrape of her whetstone over the blade cut through the silence of the Godswood. The noise is grating and harsh, should sear through her ears and make her grimace. Instead, it is a rhythmic sound, something familiar and comforting. She spends hours like this; bent over her Needle, sharpening and oiling the blade until it shone in the cold Winter light.

_Cersei. The Mountain._

The morning breeze rustles the blood leaves above her, the branches of the great tree bending low to dip into the calm waters of the springs surrounding it. The water ripples gently as the red dips in and out of the surface. The springs run deep and are warm to the touch, bringing some heat to the area, allowing her to sit here as her father used to do for hours on end.

She used to swim in them as a child, sometimes she would come crashing through the surrounding trees, skirts hitched up to her knees, tucked into her stockings. She would run as fast as she could across the uneven ground, chasing Nymeria through the place she called home. Sometimes she would find her father here, sitting in the same spot she claimed now, bent beneath blood leaves, beneath the carved face, running a stone across the blade of his broadsword, Ice, face stern but serene. Her mother used to mutter to herself about her father’s melancholic ways, said he spent too much time with his mind in the old times, whispering prayers to the Old Gods, mulling over the problems of the world in his mind.

She misses her father. She misses his stoic manner, how he stood strong and sure like the tree he prayed beneath, roots burrowed strongly into the ground. She misses his smile, how his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he saw her come crashing towards him, spread his arms wide and hold her close. She misses his calm voice, always carrying wise words she had been too young to appreciate and understand. She misses his strong arms around her and the smell of leather and snow upon his skin. She misses being a child, being carefree, living in her home, surrounded by her family, with nothing but her archery and neat stitches that would appease her Septa to worry about.

Everything is different now. She is not that little girl anymore. Her journey has been long and hard, it has worn her down and stretched her too thin and she feels old. She thinks again of her father, how her mother used to say he looks ten years his own senior, his stoic manner making his demeanour seem more ancient than he was.  She mulls over the lessons her father had gave, she remembers something Bran had told her once, something he had said solemnly after carrying out the King’s justice.

_“A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”_

 When she closes her eyes, she can still see the crumbing city around her. She can still hear the awful screech of the Dragon, can still hear the screams of the men, women and children running from the Dragon Queen’s wrath. She wonders if the Dragon Queen could hear the screams of her victims from her perch high above them. She wonders if she bears the weight of her actions. She wonders if she mourns the loss of the people she had sworn to free.

The Dragon Queen had carried out the execution of the innocents in Kingslanding. Did she bear the burden for those deaths? Had it fuelled the fire burning in her? Would she burn them all until she truly was the Queen of Ashes?

_Daenerys Targaryen._

She scrapes her stone along the blade once more, runs her finger along the edge and feels it slice through her skin, watches blood bead and rise to the surface, running along the line of broken skin and drip a small drop to the floor. It falls on a leaf of the tree and the blood disappears against the deep red.

_Daenerys Targaryen._

The rustle of fabric over fallen leaves and snow reaches her and she raises her head. Sansa smiles small to her as she comes near, wrapped up in her leather and fur, black stranding out against the white of the snow and for the first time in her life, she sees some of their father in her face. She wears her long hair unbound, it flows around her as she moves and shimmers like the leaves in the light sun. She comes close, setting herself on the bowed root Arya sits upon, her long skirts pooling around her, the hem dipping just so in to the edge of one of the pools.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Arya scrapes her stone across the blade again, eyes fixed on the shine of the steel in the light.

“This place has become a haunt for both of us. It’s the only place I can feel quiet.”

She sees Sansa nod out the corner of her eye. She watches her work, sits silently as she scrapes the stone again and again across the steel. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet, bearing words Arya had been waiting to hear since she and Sandor returned to Winterfell three days ago.

“When you first told me of your list, I had laughed. I did not understand what such a simple thing meant.“

Arya remains silent. She remembers it. Watching her sister, this strange, new person she did not know. She had been nervous to see her again, her gut was twisted in long forgotten feelings of blame and hate. They had stood before the carved stone that pretended to be their father and watched this woman her sister had become look at her with the same look of bewilderment that she knew was mirrored in her own. She had told her of her list and watched her laugh and suddenly there was the sister she used to know. The sister that would tease her for her dirty skirts and muddied face. The sister that had laughed when Robb would steal her bow and hold it above his head and watch her struggle to reach it. The sister that had let her braid her long hair before the fire as their mother read to them. The sister that she had shared a childhood with and had missed more than she could ever imagine.

As they learned the new people they had each become, Sansa had learned the gravity of the implications of her list. She had learned of the trials that had wore her down in her life, of the battles she had fought and the mud she had crawled through to claw her way back home.

Arya had learned too. She had learned of the clever mind her sister had learned. She saw the Leader she had become and admired her for it. They both had overcome so much to be together again and Arya would kill anyone that dared to take that away from them. As much as she hated all that she had gone through and all that had tainted both their hearts, she was thankful for them in her own way. She loved her sister fiercer than ever because she was all she had left and she was fighting for the home their father had gave them. Above all else, she had learned that her sister was strong from the beginning, when no one – not even she had ever seen it.

“You have added her to your list, haven’t you?”

The stone does not stop upon the blade, she does not move her gaze from it.

“She _is_ my list now.”

Sansa remains quiet for a time and Arya wonder what she is thinking. She puts her stone aside and picks up her cloth, pours some oil from the vial she keeps in her belt upon the worn hessian and begins to rub it across the blade.

“The years have changed us both,” Sansa says eventually, words slow and thought out. “I still know you, Arya. I know your mind. I have learned the person you have become, and I know you do not take death lightly. You have so much of father in you. But you use death as your own justice. Do you think it justice to kill her?”

She rubs harder at her blade, feels the frown in her brow, “you don’t want me to? You don’t like her. After what happened in the Capital, you should hate her.”

Sansa blows out a breath and looks out across the snow to the far away Direwolf banners rippling in the wind.

“No matter my feelings about her, I know that any badness a person puts out into the world, it always comes back to them. “

Arya had nothing to say to that. She knows Sansa is right. But her blood boils at the thought of the state of the Capital. She burns with anger for those innocents she had desperately tried to save and how it had all been in vain.

“She will meet her end, it does not have to be you.”

She sheaths her blade and puts away her stone and cloth. She draws herself up and finally looks to her sister.

Anyone who says she is more Tully than Stark is a fool. She sits there; Tully blue eyes, Tully auburn hair, Tully fair skin. But her eyes hold the wisdom of their father. Her face holds his serenity, Her stature, his stoicness. She sees so much of him in her now that she would laugh should anyone tell her otherwise.

“Sandor is finally resting. You should too. You have closed enough eyes. Your list is finished. Justice will find the Queen. You can finally be home.”

Tears well in Arya’s eyes and she grits her teeth against them. They fall anyway and Sansa rushes forwards to catch her in her arms, kneeling on the leaf strewn ground. Arya buries her face in her sweet smeeling hair and imagines it is their mother.

Home. Winterfell.

Years she had fought her way back here. Years she had lived battling her way through each day to finally be home. Perhaps she could just be Arya again. Perhaps she could have the life she had once known. Perhaps she was not No One anymore.

She thinks of Sandor, how his own list on one name was complete and how he had still writhed in his sleep as old demons haunted him. She thought of how he had walked hand in hand with Sansa the day before, testing out his leg, limping horribly but had smiled and had looked younger than Arya had ever seen him. She saw the man that had lived his life waiting to cross that one name from his list and find no peace in doing so. She saw him truly find his peace in Sansa, in Winterfell, in his found home, his pack.

She thinks of Gendry and smiles.

Perhaps this was what was meant for her too.

She sets Needle aside and ties closed the scabbard. She wraps her arms around her sister and listens to the leaves in the trees rustle gently. She closed her eyes and finally, _finally_ , feels herself at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it finished! Thank you so much to everyone for the following on this story, the support, kudos and comments have truly made me smile so much the past few days and gave me so much motivation to get this story going. I really do appreciate it!
> 
> Thank you to @InkyLetters for the help on the idea for this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Because as much as i was looking forward to the show down between Sandor and Gregor, I refuse to accept his death.  
> And how dare they kill him with fire. Sandor deserved better 
> 
> Going to continue this! Not sure where it is going to go, it will probably be short but i wanted to write Sandor coming back to Winterfell and Arya coming home once and for all.


End file.
